


Eating Fire and Smoke

by poetsandzombies



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, F/F, F/M, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24888013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetsandzombies/pseuds/poetsandzombies
Summary: The grievously slanted house, sitting idly on the invisible hairline between town and the middle of nowhere, is a 6-bedroom, 4-bathroom, 3-story nightmare.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 19
Kudos: 70





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Just some housekeeping: This is a simple, domestic, slice-of-life type fic. There are some plot points I have outlined, but overall I'm writing this to offer moments in time in a universe where all the losers live together. The first chapter is, admittedly, a little hectic as I try to set everything up, but most chapters will be more focused.  
> Also: This story isn't entirely romance-driven, but you can expect a lot of reddie, hanbrough, and maybe some other pairings I have in the back of my mind. 
> 
> (characters and tags will be added, ratings might change, as the story progresses)

The grievously slanted house, sitting idly on the invisible hairline between town and the middle of nowhere, is a 6-bedroom, 4-bathroom, 3-story nightmare.

Well, it passes inspection. But on clipboard checklist beneath the minimum, mandatory requirements is a section for areas where there’s “room for opportunity,” a fraction of which are as follows: the kitchen disposal that has to be turned-on-then-off-then-on again to work, a stair between the first and second floor that creaks so loud it’s cracked the window in the master's bedroom, a crack in the master's bedroom window that’s one pitch away from shattering, a closet with a door that only opens halfway contrasted by _another_ closet with no door at all, and a toddler-sized toilet on the only third-floor bathroom. If you are to ask Richie Tozier, he’ll say rent is so cheap because the house is probably being haunted by its previous "victims," and Bill Denbrough will argue that not _all_ houses with creaky stairs are haunted, while Eddie Kaspbrak might chime in that stairs don't creak because of ghosts; they creak because of timbre tread shrinkage. And potentially black mold, _somehow_.

But Beverly Marsh loves it, as does Mike Hanlon, and Ben Hanscom says he can fix most of the maintenance issues within the first couple months, and so they sign the 12-month lease—all of them—without too much back and forth about in. Besides, they’re all roughly twenty-five now and, having braved the sleep-deprived years of college mostly apart, they’re not quick to question the strange turn each of their respective lives have taken to lead them back to each other.

It's really only Stanley Uris who’s still voicing concerns on move-in day, stalled in the kitchen next to Bill, struggling to keep two large duffel bags balanced over his shoulders, as the others shuffle in and out of the house with fragile and oversized boxes.

“Are you _sure_ it’s okay I’m moving in?” he asks. “I mean, I'm getting engaged soon, and—”

“Stan, you’ve been saying that for _years_ ,” Richie cuts in, setting a box labeled _rich’s records_ down on the counter and turning to the other two. "There's no shame in giving up and slummin it with your middle school friends."

Stan was dating Patricia Blum no longer than six months when he told Mike she was the one—you know, the capital-O _One_ the movies are always talking about—and no longer than a year before he had a ring picked out. But the timing has never been right, he says. Or the mood, for that matter. Sometimes, even, the placement of their silverware. Last month, Stan put the ring back in his pocket because he didn’t like the color of the waiter’s tie.

He scowls and turns his attention from Bill to Richie. " _You_ try asking someone to spend the rest of their life with you." 

Before Richie can even look like he doesn't have a comeback, Bev comes in through the garage, a large bag slung over her shoulder. Richie takes her hand as she passes by and pulls her back. 

"Beverly, baby" he says, voice pitched obnoxiously low—truly in his top five worst voices. "We've been swappin cigs for a while now and I was wondering if you didn't want to make things official?" 

Bev, who's missed the whole conversation and has no idea what's going on, leans in and whispers: “Do we have to share a bed?”

“S’pose not.”

“Well, then.” She straightens up and puts her free hand to her chest. "Richie, I thought you'd _never_ ask.”

Richie grins and kisses Bev's hand, and Bev makes a face as she wipes it away on her jeans, but reaches back out and touches his cheek kindly. Stan looks between the two of them, utterly reactionless, before turning back to Bill.

"I'm getting engaged," he repeats. 

Bill takes one of Stan's bags off his shoulder and hefts it onto his own before smiling and nudging him with an elbow. "We'll cr-cr-cross that bridge when we get there." 

He follows Stan across the threshold into the living room and towards the stairs, just as Eddie stumbles in, wrists twisting painfully as the two large suitcases in his hands clunk around out of his control. 

"Remind me again," he grits out. "Who am I sharing the third floor with?" He sits his suitcases back on their heels and shrugs his shoulders back and forth to relieve some of the tension. Richie wraps an arm around Bev as he straightens up. 

"You're looking at him, love," he says. 

And well, Eddie's never been great at hiding his emotions, and more often than not, his _immediate_ reactions to things are not entirely indicative of his overall feelings about them, so the estranged mix of fear and disgust that washes over his face says less than the truth, but is hurtful enough anyhow.

"Bev," he sighs accusingly, because it was Bev who took the time to assign everyone a room after what was meant to be a fifteen-minute discussion turned into a 2-hour argument. She'd actually spent a deal of care and attention to the matter, which is evident in the way she crosses her arms and gives Eddie a _no-nonsense_ eyebrow-raise. 

"You have the entire third floor to yourselves."

"Do you _want_ the roof to come down on us all?" 

Bev sighs and pulls Richie's arm off her shoulders like it’s keeping her from reasoning with Eddie. "Look, I thought this through," she explains. "I know you're practically living at the hospital right now, and mostly here just to sleep. And Richie works nights, so..." 

She motions for Eddie to finish connecting the dots in his head, so he does. Before signing the lease, Richie’s part-time, off-air gig at the local radio station turned into a full-time, _on_ -air gig on the condition that he take the graveyard shift, which he gracefully accepted (“Truckers are more my type anyways,” and all). Meanwhile, Eddie’s been bending over backwards to keep up with his new internship at Cobb County hospital, having transferred mid-term, so most days he’ll be home to sleep, Richie will be gone anyway. It makes _sense_.

Still, there's a defensive pinch in his eyebrows when he says: "Fine." 

Richie takes one of Eddie's suitcases, his own box forgotten on the counter, and starts tugging it into the living room. "You sound _thrilled._ " 

Eddie grabs his other suitcase and rolls it behind Richie, their voices echoing back into the kitchen even as they reach the stairs:

"You know you're my best friend."

"Just say it." 

" _Well_ …you're a little…messy."

"I am _not!_ "

"Richie, I roomed with you our first semester of college."

"That was seven years ago..."

Bill reappears in the kitchen just as Bev's readjusting the bag on her shoulder. There’s a soft discomfort between them, and she realizes there might not be another time they’ll have a moment alone again anytime soon, and so she confronts it now.

"Hey, so. Is it going to be weird if I have Audra over?" 

Audra Phillips is a name neither of them have uttered to the other since the possibility of living together was first brought up. Bev wishes it could have stayed like that as Bill gives her a puzzled look.

"No," he answers slowly, frowning. "We're friends." 

He says it confidently enough, and maybe he knows better from the week-long breakup, but Bev's gotten to know a bit about Audra over the last couple of years too, and she gives him a skeptical look. 

"By who's standards?" she asks. Bill blinks in surprise, but before he can answer, Mike comes in, and Beverly changes the subject. "Have you seen Ben?" 

Mike sticks his thumb out and points behind him. "Think he's trying to one-trip it all."

Which sounds surprisingly like Ben, Bev decides, having spent the last month helping him pack up his old apartment. So she heads out the way Mike came in.

“I’ll c-c-call her!” Bill calls after her. Bev waves a hand in response, but doesn’t turn her head.

And then it’s quiet, all of a sudden. The kind of quiet that only Mike and Bill can achieve together—comfortably, at least. There’s some shuffling upstairs, and the sounds of car doors opening and closing outside, but the kitchen—the five chipped tiles between the two men—is filled with fond and silent wondering of what’s to come, and for how long it might be for.

Eventually, Mike looks around and smiles, and that seems to say it all.

“Welcome home.”

The house is a 6-bedroom, 4 bathroom, 3-story nightmare, and the living arrangements are as follows: Richie and Eddie take up the third floor, in separate rooms with a shared bathroom between them. Stan shares the second floor with Ben and Beverly, but sometimes opts to use one of the two bathrooms downstairs where Mike has the master's bedroom—by Bill’s insistence—and Bill has the bedroom just across from it, down the hallway from the living room.

It’s a tight squeeze, but they’re a close-knit group, and anyways they’ve found in the course of their lives that they just sleep better under the same roof.

* * *

**6:00 AM—first floor—The Kitchen**

When Bill hits the light switch, he's startled by the black and white checkered wallpaper—which, he's just decided, he hates—and the sight of Richie sitting cross-legged on the countertop, eating cereal out of a coffee cup. He manages to _not_ jump out of his skin, but closes his eyes and heaves a deep breath. 

" _Christ_ , Richie," he mutters. "Why are you s-s-sitting in the dark?" 

"I didn't want to wake anyone," Richie says, grinning over a spoonful of cheerios. "Coffee?"

Bill's eyes travel down the curve of Richie's slumped form to the toe of the loose sock over his left foot, pointing to the pot of coffee. 

He sighs. 

**6:10 AM—Second Floor—Bev and Ben's Bedroom**

Beverly is not used to privacy—not back home, not throughout college, _not_ in the year she lived with Kay. And she better not start getting any ideas about it _now_ , she thinks, as she's been awake for no longer than five minutes when Stan barges in.

"Have you seen my—"

"Woah, _hey,_ " Bev groans, sitting up in bed with a yawn. "Ever heard of knocking?" 

Stan frowns, the palm of his hand pressing into the door handle. "The door was unlocked," he says. "I'm missing a shirt. I was wondering if it maybe got mixed in with your stuff?" 

Just out of Stan's view, Ben is standing in the mouth of their open closet—the door being missing and all—and giving Bev a look of confusion, who rolls her eyes in fond annoyance and shrugs.

"What does it look like?" she asks, drawing her knees up to her chest.

"It's a white button-up."

**6:25—Third Floor—Bathroom**

"Wow, you remembered to brush your teeth."

It’s not a rude remark, but a surprised utterance of praise. Eddie pauses in the doorway to admire the toothbrush sticking out of Richie's mouth as he stands bent over the sink, already changed into pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, and definitely _nothing_ else. But then Richie turns to him and grins, toothpaste suds and spit all over his mouth and chin, and something primal and quite frankly disgusting in Eddie wants to kiss him just like that. 

Okay, so maybe Richie's less-than-tidy habits aren't the only reason Eddie has hang-ups about sharing a floor with him. So what? 

He maneuvers around him to get to his own toothbrush, catching sight of the toilet as he does. He grimaces.

"But not to flush?"

Richie spits into the sink. "If it's yellow let it mellow, Eds."

Eddie scowls and makes a show of flushing. " _Not_ when you share a bathroom with me."

**6:45—First Floor—Kitchen**

So maybe the kitchen isn’t built for seven grown adults at once. Or six, for that matter.

The small space is a frantic rush of sloshing coffee, straightening ties, fixing toast, and cooking eggs. Ben is sure he’ll have bruises from the elbowing, Bill is sure he’s going to be late at this point, and Eddie is just trying not to get coffee on his new shoes.

“How many eggs again?”

“Five.”

“Maybe six to be safe, Mikey?”

“We should make a chart.”

“Hey, you found your shirt!”

“No, this is my _other_ white button-up.”

“Can I just get—for one second—I need a plate”

“One sec, I’m trying to…no hang on, hang _on_ , Jesus—”

“Eddie—”

“I think I got it.”

“No, you have to turn it off first—”

“Like this?”

“Wait, _not_ like…that.”

The commotion comes to a full stop as Eddie flicks the switch to the garbage disposal one too many times and it grumbles, gargles, and spits out some kind of foreign gunk onto Eddie’s sleeves. He crinkles his nose at the odor, but manages to communicate to the room of startled friends that he’s fine, he’s _fine_ , he just needs to go change.

The others don’t move for several moments after he leaves, until Ben eventually sighs into his coffee.

“I’ll fix it.”

It’s an adjustment period, all around.


	2. Bill Denbrough and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's truly not that bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know and I'm sorry. We are going through it. Also, I predict that my chapter lengths will probably be inconsistent. We're trying.

It’s a long day for Bill.  
Long, mostly because it starts at 6 am. It starts at 6 am because he’s not dating his boss anymore, and he’s not dating his boss anymore because he hasn’t been starting his days at 6 am—or wearing business-casual clothing, or meeting deadlines, or answering calls, or remembering dates. It's a long day for Bill, in short, because he's been slacking off both in and out of the office, a habit born from getting too comfortable.

He sticks it out to the end though, despite his attention span clocking out hours earlier, despite the complaints from his spine, because if he couldn't be a good boyfriend to Audra Phillips, then he can at _least_ be a good employee to her. 

He's mentally drained by the time his loafers hit the "Welcome to the Shit Show" doormat Stan set out a few days prior, and he stares at it for a good two minutes, hesitating before putting his hand on the door. He doesn't yet know his friends' schedules, but he can hear the muffled sounds of _commotion_ on the other side of the door, and the potential to be met with all six of his best friends keeps him lingering on a few moments longer. 

Richie is the only one home, in the living room between the leather couch—courtesy of Richie's mother—and the cuffed-up coffee table—a hand-me-down from Bill's own parents. Some 80s-adjacent pop is playing a notch too high, a broom has been abandoned against the wall by the television, and he is dancing. 

Which, for Richie Tozier, means a sloppy shuffling of bare feet against the floorboards and gangly-loose elbow popping and hip rocking. He _notoriously_ doesn’t have moves—is too awkwardly shaped for them—but somehow has rhythm. That’s the thing you learn about Richie when you get to know him like Bill does; he has his jokes and he has his voices and he has that annoying little way of making you laugh with a single cocked eyebrow, through which he best communicates.

But Richie’s _second_ language is music—his language of isolation, his language of soul searching, his language of _IT'S BEEN A LONG DAY AND I AM TRYING TO RECONNECT WITH MYSELF, PLEASE HOLD_. Bill suddenly remembers his mid-college semesters, getting back to the dorms after exams and letting himself get lost in the sounds of 70s American Rock next to Richie, like Richie was taking his time moving through the decades of music.

And Bill likes it on his own just fine, but not quite the way he likes it through the lens of Richie Tozier. 

He grins, toeing out of his shoes and loosening his tie, sliding into the living room and into Richie's space with his own questionable moves. Richie, who seems to have been in his own head until this point, catches sight of Bill just as the chorus picks up and beams, pointing to him and mouthing along to the lyrics. Bill throws his head back and laughs, allowing Richie to pull him in and finish undoing his off his tie, tossing it aside on the couch.

It goes on like this, each awkward maneuver formed from the left feet and shrugged shoulders and indecisive fingers between them lifting some of Bill's stress—and yeah, okay, let's call it what it is: _heartache_ —until the sound of the front door closing jolts Bill right out of Richie's world. Richie is slower to respond, but stops when he sees Bill has, and follows his gaze back to the front door where Mike is now standing. After a solid ten seconds of silence, Mike cocks an eyebrow, and Richie's smile doesn't falter. 

"We're cleaning!" he says, with the same faux-innocence a child might have after coloring on the walls. 

Mike steps into the living room with a soft huff of laughter. "Doesn't look much like cleaning," he says, pulling his briefcase strap over and off his shoulder. He's dressed in khakis and simple button-up, leaving Richie the odd-one-out in his pajama bottoms. "Doesn't look much like dancing either." 

Richie clasps his hand over his chest. "Mikey, that hurts." 

Bill tries to will the faint flush of embarrassment off his cheeks because _yes_ _hello, it’s just Mike_ , and quickly changes the subject.

"How w-w-was work?"

Mike's new job, the one that prompted their new living arrangement, started this morning; a startup position as a research assistant to a scrawny, high-strung man with a long face and short temper. Mike came home after his interview that week already doubtful, but said it's the money he needs—the experience he needs—and the time he needs to decide if he wants to go to grad school. By the look on his face now, his first impression even underestimated how much this job would take out of him. 

He smiles, though; a soft and tired smile that warms Bill's sore muscles. He collapses back on the couch and Bill joins him as Richie goes to turn the music down.

"Long," Mike says, yawning. "Just...long." 

Which seems to be the general consensus from _all_ of Bill’s roommates as they get home one by one today, Ben following Stan into the kitchen as they rattle off about each misstep from the time they woke up until now, Bev popping in just long enough to change her clothes before heading back out to see Kay, and Eddie coming straight through the front door and up the stairs without a glance in anyone’s direction (prompting Richie to suddenly realize that it’s _way_ past his bedtime).

They are all in and out so fast—save Mike, who stays with Bill on the couch well into the evening—but there lies a solidarity in knowing they’re all here under the same roof, and reminding Bill that he’s not alone in his long days, makes them a little less long.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uh, grocery shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not me updating this after four months of radio silence. Anyways, Jamie, if you see this, this is for you, because you motivated me to push through this chapter. thank you, etc etc

Saturdays are now reserved for grocery shopping. 

They try to each do their own for a while, but the problem with that is the size of their refrigerator, and how disproportionate it is to the number of Redbulls Richie would buy if he didn't have to consider his six roommates. It only takes Eddie's packed lunches being moved to the freezer three times, and juice being spilled on Stan's salad _once_ , for them to end up here, in the nearly empty parking lot of the closest grocery store, crammed into two cars. 

Bev is giving Bill a thumbs-up through the driver's side window. Bill gives it back, accompanied by an unsure smile, as Stan and Eddie bicker in the back seat. 

There's a pause in the lobby where they realize, self-consciously, that there are seven of them. Seven of them in their disarray of weekend sweats and— _oh, Richie_ —pajama bottoms, nearly blocking the sloppy stacks of carts by the sliding doors. This didn't bother them when they were fourteen, fifteen, or even sixteen, when the candy shops and convenience stores they roughed up were much smaller and they were less in control of their bodies. But they're grown now, full-bodied and made to feel embarrassed about the way strangers look at them.

Or some of them, at least. 

"Oh hell, it's faster if we split up anyway," Bev says with an eye roll, like _duh_ why didn't she think of that earlier. She tears the grocery list into three parts, neatly, as she feels Stan's eyes on her, and distributes them amongst the others where they're standing.

"Alright," Richie says, eyeing his third of the list with a raised eyebrow. "Who needs the wart remover?" He holds up the list as if for proof, and Eddie immediately snatches it out of his hands. 

"It's a _precaution,_ " he says defensively. He mutters something else under his breath and then grabs a cart from one of the rows closest to him, steering it toward the sliding doors. 

Richie follows him into the store, calling out “ _dude_ ,” in a loud and obnoxious manner as he does.

The movement seems to kick everyone else into action, folding up their lists and pulling out carts without so much as a few huffs of amusement, and an annoyed sigh from Stan.

* * *

**Aisle 3 — Breakfast Foods**

There's something to be said about the brevity of their grocery list when it comes to breakfast, for a household of adults working eight-hour days and forty-hour weeks. Bev thinks it might be a thing about comfort, and rebuilding their home in this new space, in this new town. The beginning of it was full of anxieties around new jobs and longer commutes and uncertainty about traffic, that got everyone out of bed on time and ready early enough to either sit on their fidgeting hands, or eat something.

That's all settled now, and in their comfort, they sleep in, spend more time in front of the mirrors, and are out the door before they can even remember that they have a kitchen.

Still, for a meal so often prioritized in importance by health experts, Richie seems to be the only one to eat it consistently. Even if it _is_ cereal and milk every morning. 

Bev frowns into the cart she's been filling absently in her thoughts. 

"Hey, Bill?" she says. She turns away from the shelves to where Bill and Ben seem to be struggling with the breakfast bars a couple feet away. "Do you really need all this coffee?"

The boys glance over in her direction and she gestures to the packages of ground coffee beans and k-cups she'd stacked in the seat of their cart. 

"Well the decaf is Eddie's," Bill tells her, slow. "Ah-and the vanilla is fuh-for Audra." 

"Oh," Bev says, and doesn't say anything more. 

"What about these?" Ben comes over to Bev with the breakfast bars. 

"I _think_ those are for Patty." 

Bill looks over Bev's shoulder at the list she has in her hand. "Are ah-any of these even actually for us?" 

The Chex is Richie's, technically, but Bev just shrugs. They were the ones who woke up every morning and decided not to eat. 

"You know," Ben says, " _I_ could have other friends, too." He seems stuck on it. 

Bill looks up and smiles at him. "Do you?"

"I could!"

Bill laughs and Bev gives Ben's shoulder a teasing squeeze. "Well you let me know when you start having sleepovers with them." 

**Aisle 16 — Frozen Meals**

Stanley Uris would give up anything for the room in that crooked little house, right in the middle of all of his friends. And he _does_ mean everything. 

And everything, right now, feels like his Sunday morning grocery shopping—the empty aisles before the town was awake, the neat compartmentalization of his shopping cart, and the idle meal planning for the week after next. It's in these small doses of mundanity that he can justify the total chaos of living with his best friends.

Friendship is compromise, however, and anyway, at least he's with Mike. Easy and reasonable Mike, who—

He pauses on the thought, frowning. Looks out across the perimeter they'd been walking, in between the aisles. Mike is nowhere to be found. 

Stan is about to heave a great, dramatic sigh and go on without him when he catches sight of the end of their cart, peeking out behind a display of glasses. 

"Mike," he says as he comes over, a small itch of irritability creeping up just because these were _not_ on their list. But when he comes around Mike has turned to him, grinning, wearing a ridiculously large pair of pink, heart-shaped reading glasses, and Stan lets out an involuntary snort, startled. 

"Is that sanitary?" 

"Who am I?" Mike adjusts the way the glasses are perched on his nose with over-enthusiasm. 

Stan bites down on his bottom lip, amused. "Hard to tell. Aren't you missing some like, freckled five-foot doctor?"

"I am _not_ five foot," Mike retorts, in a scarily accurate impersonation of Richie, impersonating Eddie. He makes another absurd gesture with the glasses, raising his eyebrows as he does. 

"Excuse _me_ ," Stan says in an almost sincere apology, then straightens up. "Those are so tacky."

"Mm," Mike agrees, and puts them in their shopping cart. 

**Aisle 17 — Pharmacy**

"You know Stan's limited me to four energy drinks a week now?" 

Richie's following Eddie so close behind, he can feel his breath on the back of his neck every time he talks. It's the unreasonably long legs, and the fact that Eddie has to keep stopping to grab items off the shelf, he _knows_ , but he wishes he would at least try to slow down. It's distracting.

"So?"

" _So_ ," Richie goes on, "I work _five_ days a week, plus I'm on an opposite sleeping schedule on the weekends."

It's hard for Eddie to sympathize when his vision is fuzzing up. "Can't you just drink coffee like normal people?" 

Richie comes around to the front of the cart Eddie's pushing and stops him, folding his arms across the top of it. He _does_ look tired, having to be up so late in the morning. Eddie almost doesn’t blame him for coming in the way he has, with bedhead and worn pajama bottoms, a t-shirt he’s had since high school that’s all but lost its shape.

“I mean,” Richie says, and Eddie blinks, trying to refocus. “Why do I have to limit _my_ needs, but you get to stock up on...ibuprofen like some doomsday prepper prepping for the lamest apocalypse in history.”

Eddie makes a face at him. “It’s not just for me, alright, Mikey’s been getting migraines.” He moves away from the halted cart to grab some eyeglass cleaner next to Richie. “It also doesn’t get left open and half-empty in the fridge just to be knocked over and spilled on everyone else’s food.”

When he turns away from the eye care, Richie is right there, a hand on the shelf, practically crowding Eddie up against the aisle.

“Well if I’m so much trouble—” Richie starts, smiling a little.

“You’re _not_ ,” Eddie insists emphatically, completely forgetting himself. He opens his mouth again to correct it, to let Richie finish the joke, but Richie’s eyebrows furrow in surprise, while his smile widens, and Eddie has to look away.

“Oh,” he hears Richie say quietly after a beat of awkward silence, and looks back up. “Didn’t put _these_ on the list.”

He follows Richie’s free hand as it reaches out next to him to grab…what’s he grabbing? Eddie cranes his neck more to better see the small pack of condoms he’s pulled off the shelf.

 _Oh_. He doesn’t bother trying to cover the odd mixture of irritable confusion that twists up his face.

Because it’s not like he doesn’t _know_ , but that he spends a great deal of effort pretending _not_ to know. He hasn’t had to _know_ since college. And Richie is making that pretty much impossible, right here, in the middle of a grocery store. He waves the box in Eddie’s face and grins.

“It's a _precaution_ ,” he mimics, and tosses it in the cart.

Eddie doesn’t respond, can feel himself going quiet for the rest of the afternoon, but grabs the cart and pulls it forward, Richie obliviously following behind.

* * *

Bev emerges with Ben and Bill from their last aisle at about the same time Richie and Eddie do, Richie having fit his entire body in their shopping cart and Eddie steering it with only a little more difficulty. It takes a few more minutes for Stan and Mike to come out, but they all wait, and eventually they do, looking a little rushed.

“Sl-slacking off?” Bill asks when they get within earshot. Mike grins.

“We got distracted,” Stan says.

He looks like he’s on the edge of a laughing fit, while Eddie looks more reserved than he had coming in, but their carts are full, and their lists checked off, and everyone had finished within 20 minutes, so Bev considers it a success. And definitely worth it for the extra room in their kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been hard for me to keep writing this because I haven't been too happy with the writing quality and its inconsistency, but I'm always around and I'll update whenever I can.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: trashmouthkid


End file.
